Adrienne deWolfe (26 page)

His confession touched a deep, hidden part of Rorie, the part that knew what it was like to be unwanted and alone. She searched for something to say, something to take away the pain that he clearly associated with his family, but he tore his gaze free and turned away.

"I reckon you'll be wanting to go in now," he said. "I think I'll mosey on down to the springhouse and take a shower bath to wash off some of this trail dust."

She hesitated, and he glanced her way. For a moment, one endless, breathless moment, she could see the hope and longing in his eyes. They called to every female fiber of her being, and she was torn between what was right and what was proper, and what she wished she had more than anything else in the world.

She asked herself what harm there could be in crossing over to him, in letting him know she'd accepted his apology, but he grinned. It was a purely wicked flash of white teeth and dimples.

"'Course, if you'd care to join me..."

She knew he was deliberately trying to provoke her again, and yet, even as her cheeks warmed, temptation flurried through her belly.

Not trusting her voice, she shook her head.

"Too bad." He winked with a hint of his old roguery. "I guess I'll see you in the morning then. Good night, ma'am."

She released a ragged breath and smiled, her reluctant feet dragging her away.

"Good night, Wes."

* * *

Wes had returned from town Friday night a changed man. Rorie couldn't put her finger on the difference, although there seemed to be a subtle wariness about him—that edge she'd noticed earlier—and he couldn't quite disguise it behind his easygoing charm. Even Shae remarked on the difference, confiding that Wes was a lot less talkative while he worked, and that he often turned his gaze to the road as if he were watching for someone or waiting for something to happen.

Even so, Shae seemed to make peace with this new Wes. After tucking the children in that night, Rorie spied the two of them together, chatting on the porch and engaging in the manly ritual of gun cleaning. She wondered uneasily if she should regard this traditional pastime as the foreshadowing of some ominous event to come, but on Saturday, Wes's behavior was nearly back to normal. When he wasn't scaling the roof or painting the barn's newly raised wall, he was riding a delighted Po on his shoulders, teaching an eager Topher how to whittle, or advising a downhearted Nita how to get boys to notice her after Shae, her primary infatuation, proved too busy to compliment the new ribbons in her hair.

Rorie overheard Nita's conversation with Wes as she approached the front door to ring the angle iron for dinner. Although she hadn't meant to eavesdrop, Nita's dejected tone arrested her on the threshold. She quickly found herself too touched—and too confused—to make her presence known while Wes counseled the child.

"All fellas are different, Nita, so I reckon I can't speak for Shae," he said. "Now as for me, I like a woman who can talk to a man about more than she-stuff, a woman with spunk and some class—but one who isn't shy about laughing or smiling. My woman's going to have a Texas-sized heart, too, and she'll love a lot of children. 'Cause I'm going to have a lot of children someday," he added drolly, "and they're all going to have red hair."

"I like children," Nita said coyly. "And red hair too."

"You do, huh?" Pausing in his work, he measured the wooden sole he'd been whittling to help correct Merrilee's limp. Then he cast a sidelong glance at the thirteen-year-old sitting beside him. "Do you think Miss Rorie likes red hair?"

Nita gave his question grave consideration. "I guess so," she answered after a moment. "I've never heard her say anything against it."

Rorie bit her lip. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. For Wes to ask such a question, he must have been thinking about her at least half as much as she'd been thinking about him. Why, after their encounter in the barn, she'd been so hot and restless in her bed, she'd skimmed guilty hands over her belly, touching her tangle of womanly hair, clutching her pillow between her thighs. A hundred times or more the previous night, she had imagined him: his warm leathery palms, his hot hungry lips, the velvet granite of his naked flesh.

She knew it was wrong to fantasize about one man when she was encouraging the suit of another, but she seemed especially drawn to Wes's new, enigmatic darkness—that primal shadow that lurked beneath his light-hearted facade. She didn't understand how she could long for a scoundrel when she could have the security and predictability of Ethan. A hard-working, honest rancher rooted in his land, Ethan was exactly what she needed for herself and the children.

But Ethan had never made her heart trip with his smile or her knees weaken with his glance. In fact, nothing about Ethan's mannerisms made her giddy, perhaps because he always conducted himself like a gentleman in her presence, rather than some shameless, cocksure flirt.

Maybe with the right kind of encouragement, she thought, Ethan could curl her toes. Wes was always telling her to give a fellow a chance. Maybe if she let Ethan kiss her, she would feel the same spark of passion for him that she felt for Wes.

One could always hope so, she mused ruefully.

That night, after dinner, Shae had to take Nardo home. The child had dutifully arrived after lunch with a basket of his mother's tamales as weekly payment for his lessons, and Topher had persuaded him to play chase—until Nardo had twisted his ankle and abruptly ended the game.

As Shae hitched Daisy to the wagon, Wes showed the first sign that his easygoing manner still hid a lingering wariness.

"How long do you think you'll be away?" he demanded, casting a glance at the setting sun.

Shae's color deepened as he glanced at Rorie, standing near the wagon bed and holding Nardo's hand. She guessed Shae had hoped to use Nardo's ankle as an excuse to disappear for a while, doing whatever young men did on a Saturday night. She suspected Lorelei Faraday was the object of Shae's affection, but other than a cautionary word about "innocent young women" and "gentlemanly honor," she'd always been careful not to pry into his private affairs. Shae was a sensitive and intelligent young man, and she trusted him not to sire bastards all over the county.

"I don't know how long I'll be," Shae answered, drawing himself up a little taller and meeting Wes's stare with a narrowed gaze of his own. "Why?"

Topher snickered, nudging Nardo in the ribs. "Shae's still sweet on your sister Rosa."

The boys tittered, and the tension seemed to ease somewhat from Wes's shoulders. He shrugged, pasting on a smile. "No reason. Just... keep your eyes peeled."

Shae nodded. He shoved his shotgun under the driver's seat only to have Wes hand him one of his Peacemaker's—much to Rorie's uneasiness.

"I expect you won't be needing it, son, since you're only driving out to the Garcias' place," Wes said pointedly. His smile turned wry. "If I thought you did need it, you couldn't keep me from riding along."

Their eyes locked again, and some manly understanding seemed to pass between them.

"I trust you can keep an eye on things while I'm gone?" Shae said.

"Oh yeah." Hooking his thumbs over his gun belt, Wes tossed Rorie a mouthwatering grin. "I'll watch things real good."

So Shae and Nardo rode off into the sunset, leaving Rorie to fend for herself—against Wes. Fortunately, she had Ginevee and four more children to distract him from mischief. They all crowded around as he put the finishing touches on Merrilee's new, elevated shoe. Topher wanted to wear the shoe first, ostensibly to help Merrilee break it in. Seeing how self-conscious the girl had become, Ginevee chased Topher and the others from the sitting room.

Even so, Merrilee looked as if she'd prefer to run and hide. Wes must have murmured every tender encouragement he knew to get her to take her first hesitant step with him. His patience was truly extraordinary. Standing at the opposite end of the room, Rorie watched his ministrations with a mixture of misty-eyed gratitude and maternal distrust. Every time Merrilee teetered or stumbled, Rorie was tempted to run to the child, but Wes was always at her side, stopping her fall.

He must have worked for a full half hour, buoying Merrilee's confidence, before she finally set his hand free and paced the room's perimeter without his help. The look of joyous wonder on her face made tears stream down Rorie's own.

And when Merrilee completed her solo trip, throwing her arms around Wes's waist in an exuberant show of gratitude, Rorie was hard-pressed not to do the same.

A chorus of cheers and applause erupted from outside. Startled, Rorie turned to find Topher and Nita, Po and Ginevee, all peeking through the open window.

"That was ripsnortin', Merrilee!" Topher crowed.

"Bully for you," Nita chimed in.

"Bull-wee shortin'! Bang, bang, bang!" Po shouted, bouncing up and down in Ginevee's arms and brandishing the wooden gun Wes had whittled for him.

Everyone laughed, and Ginevee wiped a tear from her eye.

"I reckon this calls for a celebration," she said, her voice thick with emotion.

"Hoo-boy! Cookies!"

"Topher," Nita chided, "you just had dessert."

"So?"

Ginevee chuckled, waving the children inside. "I was thinking more along the lines of pie. Pecan pie."

"That's even better," Wes quipped, winking down at Merrilee. "But don't you eat too much, you near? This being your fandango and all, I'm going to want the first dance."

"Wes, really." Rorie laughed, blinking away the last of her tears. She couldn't remember the last time a man had brought such happiness into her home. "I don't think Merrilee's up to dancing just yet."

"Sure she is." He kissed the back of the beaming child's hand. "Merrilee can do anything. It's Ginevee I'm worried about," he teased as the woman reappeared, herding the other children through the front door. "You think you can pluck out a boot-scootin' tune on that old fiddle of yours?"

Her eyes twinkling, Ginevee tossed her head. "Just try and keep up with me, clodhopper."

The children dashed from the kitchen back to the sitting room each holding a plate with a generous slice of pie on it. Wes joked that he didn't need sawdust on the floor since he had Topher's pie crumbs for traction. As he pushed the furniture against the wall, Ginevee rosined up her bow. There was a general hush of excitement as everyone waited for her to play. Even Topher stopped smacking his lips long enough to hear the first lively strains of melody—"Turkey in the Straw."

Wes threw back his head and laughed. "C'mon, Merrilee. We'll show Ginevee we're no lead-footed bumpkins."

Doubling over, he swung the child into his arms and spun her around the room. Laughter bubbled up in Rorie's throat as she watched his stomping and swaying. The man had rhythm, that was certain, and a carefree energy that stole her breath away. Just watching his whirlwind turns made her heart pound, and when he bowed next to Nita, she felt a trickle of jealousy that made her feel guilty and foolish.

Trying to ignore her muddled emotions, she bounced Po on her knee, clapping the toddler's hands in time to Ginevee's spirited bowing. The sun had set, and the lamplight sent Wes's shadow leaping and dancing across the walls. Her foot began tapping to the sound of his boots.

She'd always loved waltzes and reels, but Jarrod had discouraged her enthusiasm after they were wed, saying it was scandalous for a married woman to "carry on so." As self-conscious as Jarrod was about her height, she'd often suspected he denied her the pleasure of dancing simply because he felt awkward leading a woman whose shoulder obscured his view. In any event, she could count on one hand the number of times she had danced in the past eight years.

"Not bad for a hayseed," Ginevee called to Wes. "You warmed up enough for some real foot stompin'?"

He grinned at her, releasing Nita's hand. "And here I'd thought you'd fallen asleep with that bow. Give me the best you've got, fiddler."

He was standing before Rorie now, offering her his hand, and her pulse took off like a runaway train. Thanks to Jarrod, she had never had a chance to learn the two-step that Texicans favored—and that Wes had been dancing with carefree enthusiasm. She clutched Po a little tighter.

"Thank you, Wes. But after all that pie—"

He snatched Po out of her arms and passed him to Nita.

"You'll work off that pie in a dance or two. On your feet, Mrs. Sinclair. Or can't a Yankee lady keep up with a Texican cyclone like me?"

She blushed at his challenge. "Well, to tell you the truth, we don't practice your particular, er, style in Cincinnati."

"Shoot. I'll teach you." He was dragging her out of her chair. "After you taught me how to read, that seems only fair."

She laughed at his jest. She couldn't help herself. Nothing she had ever learned in finishing school had prepared her for Wes. He was a homespun gallant, impossible to resist. And when his arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her breathlessly close to his chest, she forgot her reasons for trying.

"This isn't some fuddy-duddy waltz now," he teased in her ear. "You just might have to kick up your heels."

His heat spiraled through her as he turned her around the room. She quickly realized that two-stepping had all the vigor of a polka, minus one of the steps. Quick to learn, she had little trouble adjusting her feet to the pattern. But that freed up her attention, leaving her endless moments to concentrate on forbidden things, like him.